


Arrow by gaslight

by redtoes



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-05 01:39:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redtoes/pseuds/redtoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first season of Arrow... if it was set in London in 1890. Felicity Smoak is a watchmaker and locksmith hiding behind her father's name, Oliver Queen is the son of a knight, recently rescued after five years shipwrecked in the Orient and John Diggle is an ex-whaler out for revenge. </p><p>Warning: Contains era appropriate swearing, sexism and occasional racism</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The watchmaker

**Author's Note:**

> This came to me in a dream. And I'm no historical expert, so this is heavily based on my memory of my A-level history course, George McDonald Fraser's Flashman series, the recent Sherlock Holmes film series by Guy Ritchie. Any historical inaccuracies are my fault entirely.

Her father was three winters in the ground but Miss Felicity Megan Smoak had yet to change the sign from Smoak & Son Master Craftsmen: Watchmaker and Locksmith. She said it was because she could not justify the cost of a new carving but the truth of it was that even in these modern days most folk preferred the illusion of male power over the reality of female talent. So she worked the front office, spun stories about how the Master was at lunch or working on another project, and then when she was alone she’d slip back into the workroom, cover her petticoats with an apron and do the work herself.

London was all abuzz in those days about the return of one Oliver Queen, son of the late industrialist, Sir Robert of Starling, returned to life after being thought dead for five long years. He had been the scion of society prior to being shipwrecked on some remote shore and society gossip, some of which reached even Felicity’s lowly ears suggested he had returned to form.

Her father had spent his life in this shop, and his father before him, and Felicity had learned her trade before she could walk. Cogs and gears were her childhood toys and her skills, while hidden under her father's name, had become known in certain circles. Her clientele were a mix of fine city gentlemen with watches to fix and documents to secure, merchants looking to protect their wares and the occasional Peeler from Scotland Yard, in search of a safe breaker. There was only one Bobbie who had seen through the facade of her father, but she trusted Detective Inspector Lance implicitly, even if it did make her doubt the detecting skills of his colleagues.

Felicity lived alone in the small flat over the shop and spent most of her evenings completing the work she had no time to do while maintaining the illusion. What free hours she had were spent reading the latest serial novel by candlelight, and avoiding the invitations issued by her meddling great aunts and their constant remarks that if her father had beaten her out of her habit to babble like he should have she could have been married off years ago.

She was aware of Oliver Queen in the same way as she was aware of Queen Victoria or Lord Gladstone – great figures who entered her life only via the medium of newspaper print or cartoons in Punch.  Despite the high rank held by some of her customers she more often saw the manservants or valets than the men themselves, and the idea that someone like Oliver Queen might one day walk into her establishment was about as likely as Mr Darcy stepping full formed out of her favourite novel and inviting her to live with him at Pemberly.

It was, in retrospect, a very ordinary Tuesday when that changed. She had managed to slip away to the shop’s backroom to start work on the beautiful golden pocket watch ordered by Lord Steele in honour of his step-son’s return from the dead and was feeling rather proud of her progress when she heard the bell above the shop door ring, announcing the arrival of a new customer.

With hands made swift from much practice she shucked the apron and darted through to the main room, only to find the face of the man awaiting her a match to the woodcut picture that graced the front cover of yesterday’s Times.

“I’m looking for Master Smoak,” Oliver Queen said. He was taller than he had seemed when described by the papers and there was a force of personality that she had not expected from a man known for his less salubrious habits.

“Master Smoak is out,” she replied, the practiced lie coming easy to her lips. “I’m his daughter, may I help you, Mr Queen?”

“You know my name?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Everyone knows your name! Your miraculous return from exile made the papers. I knew your father’s name too of course, though you are alive and he is not.” She paused and realised to her horror that she’d been babbling, “I’m sorry sir, I did not mean to say that. My aunts say I am afflicted with a verbal curse.”

“Indeed,” he said, “And no offence was taken, given the recent attention I’ve received from the gentlemen of the press I should not have been so surprised. May I have the pleasure of your name?”

“Felicity,” she immediately replied, then paused to take a breath.  It would not do to be flustered “That is to say, Miss Felicity Smoak, Mr Queen.” She bobbed in place, not sure what the correct courteous gesture was for the son of a knight.

“It is indeed a pleasure to meet you, Miss Smoak,” Mr Queen said, “my step father tells me your father is the best locksmith in the city. I had hoped to engage his talents.”

“He is, but he is out I’m afraid. If you could tell me of your issue I could have him work upon it when he returns?”

“Time, I’m afraid, is quite pressing,” Mr Queen said. He looked at her shrewdly and she felt odd under his gaze. “I wonder,” he added, “would it be ungentlemanly of me to speculate that a locksmith’s daughter might be as good a locksmith as the man himself?”

“I don’t know what you mean sir,” Felicity said, formally, “my father is the craftsman here.”

“I ask only because time is of the essence. My mother is throwing a banquet this evening and there are several documents I must deliver for my stepfather in advance of it. But alas, the lock on my bag,” and with this he placed a large intimidating looking case upon the countertop, “is jammed.”

Felicity blinked.

“This is not a gentleman’s bag,” she said before she could think.

“Indeed it is not,” he said, sounding amused rather than the annoyance she had come to expect from people exposed to her babbling, “though as I spent several years away from polite society I find I would not know what a gentleman’s bag might look like.”

“It looks rather,” she said, feeling suddenly emboldened by his easy manner and the glint of humour in his eye, “like a villain’s bag. The kind of bag the local bobbies often bring me to open for them.”

“Then you do know your father’s trade!” Mr Queen said, sounding delighted and not at all like she had just insinuated that he might have criminal ties. “That is excellent; can you open it for me?”

Felicity looked at the bag, then at Queen. He seemed incredibly unlike what she had expected. There was more of the rogue to him than the scoundrel and she found herself wanted to own up to her own skills, her own mastery. She had a passing thought that a man exiled from society for so long might appreciate meeting another who did not entirely fit in.

“If I were to do so,” she said slowly, “you would have to keep my secret. I would not lose all my business due to the reality of my sex.”

“You will find, Miss Smoak,” Mr Queen said with a strange half-smile that she found incredibly attractive, “that I am rather good at the keeping of secrets. Shall we begin?”

“Indeed we shall,” she said and gestured for him to precede her into the workroom.


	2. The intruder

John Diggle was by far the largest man she had ever met in her life. His arms were like tree trunks and the sheer bulk of him loomed, not unlike a giant from some half remembered fairytale. His skin was black as night - far darker than others of his kin she had met before, and occasionally, through gaps in clothing, she glimpsed the thick midnight lines of tattoos decorating his already dark flesh.

He was a quiet man, but seemed utterly loyal to Queen, which she was initially surprised at. Queen was charming, to be sure, and he had some secret purpose for the tasks and challenges he brought to her, but he was still a pampered child of the aristocracy, and what he had done to gain the unwavering fidelity of Diggle, a veteran of both the North West frontier and the Atlantic whaling fleet, was a mystery to her.

Queen treated him as an equal, asking for advice, deferring to his knowledge and never once acting as if their difference in status was anything he had noticed. He mostly did the same to her, but his requests often came coated in charm, which flustered her. She considered privately whether she would prefer to be treated as Diggle was, a trusted professional of notable skill, but Oliver Queen was savvy as well as handsome, and she could already feel her heart beat faster when he appeared, and so while she disliked that her lordling thought he needed to adopt a wooful air in order to gain her assistance, she did nothing to discourage him in this regard. 

She enjoyed their visits. After she managed to open the first bag for him there was a second, then a request for information about the neighbourhood and a commission for the best lock she could make. It was a pleasure to put aside the ghost of her father and be acknowledged herself, though she knew that was a dangerously seductive path. Even if she could maintain the facade of her father, should news of their acquaintance and familiarity be made public, she would be the one to suffer the damnation of society. Oliver Queen would be permitted to take his pleasure and slake his thirst where ever he so desired - even in the odd location of her company. The gossips would not look so kindly upon her.

It was an odd season, as Summer turned to Autumn. Oliver Queen’s return from exile was now no longer the news story most discussed in ale houses. He had been supplanted by a new tale - that of a hooded man, stalking the streets of the city, terrorising notables and leaving arrows in their corpses. The streets were full of talk of the man - not least because it was the first time such a creature had not preyed upon the weak and helpless and had instead turned its gaze upon the cream of society, like a feline determined to take the best of the morning milk.

Felicity remembered well the terror of two years past, when death stalked the streets of Whitechapel and was never caught. Jack, the papers had called him, and the letters published had chilled her bones to their core. Her father had not yet been gone a year, and she had stayed rooted in the rooms above their Clerkenwell shop, too afraid to venture forth until hunger forced her to risk the walk. Nothing had happened in the end, for Whitechapel was a good mile or more from Clerkenwell; but still, she remembered her fear well and was determined to never allow herself be so taken by paranoia ever again.

It was with some trepidation then that she heard the noises from the workshop below her. The grandfather clock in the hallway had stuck midnight already and while she knew there may well be mice in her walls, mice did not make that much noise.

Hefting a candlestick and the old Smith & Wesson revolver her father had once carried to war, she set herself to investigate. 

Her step was light on the stair, and she instinctively moved around the boards she knew would creek. As she reached the lower floor she glanced down at herself. She wore an old nightgown and robe, but the gown was buttoned up to her chin and fell to her ankles so sleepwear or not, so she felt suitably covered. 

So prepared, she ventured forth to meet her invader.

“There’s no money in the house,” she said, clearly. “And any tools you filch from me would be swiftly recognised and returned by any one in the city who would be interested in buying them.”

A dull sound echoed out of her workshop and Felicity tightened her grip on the candlestick and levelled the revolver at the darkness.

“I warn you,” she said, “I am armed and there is no court in the land that would convict a women defending herself in her own home.”

“Please,” came a voice. It sounded low and pained.

“I will shoot,” she said, the gun was heavy in her hand but she was determined not to let it sag. She remembered suddenly that when she had learned to fire this weapon she had been instructed to use two hands, but the other was full of the candlestick and in that moment she wanted light as much as protection.

“I won’t hurt you, Felicity,” the voice said. It was deep and unfamiliar to her.

“How do you know my name?” She demanded, taking a step forward and lifting the candlestick to illuminate the darkness.

“Because you know my name,” a figure half collapsed across her desk said. He was hidden in the shadows, but suddenly the once unfamiliar voice became clear.

“Oliver!” She gasped, letting the revolver drop to her side. “I mean, Mr Queen.”

She stepped forward and the candle light, and all at once realised the manner of his dress; the hood, the leathers, the end of quiver peaking past his shoulder. He was the masked man the newspapers had so gleefully recounted tales of.

“Everything about you has just become so incredibly clear,” she muttered, then realised that the dark of his clothing was not just dye, but blood.

“You’re bleeding!”

“I don't need to be told that, Felicity!”

“Miss Smoak,” she remarked tartly, “if you’re going to bleed on my work table you owe me the courtesy of that, at least.”

“Indeed,” Queen said, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “Will you help me, Miss Smoak? I would be ever so indebted to you.”

“Indeed Mr Queen,” she echoed back to him. “I see now what you meant about keeping secrets.”


	3. The Dodger

“The society column in the Sentinel says you were late to the Merlyn ball last night,” Felicity said absently as her eyes scanned over the morning news sheet. Daily news sheets were one of the few luxuries she allowed herself, and despite the new adventurous turn her life had taken she was still determined to keep her daily routine and keep her mind sharp and up to date on the events of the world.

She'd just had to transplant some aspects of it from her shop to Oliver Queen’s warehouse offices.

“Oh?” Queen said.

“Which is strange,” Felicity continued, “because I happen to know you were not wearing dancing shoes last night at all. In fact,” she paused, trying to picture the outfit in question, “I’d call your footwear much more boot-like in nature.”

“You should not believe everything you read in the papers, Miss Smoak,” Queen said, “it is amazing how cheaply some of them can be bought.”

Felicity furrowed her brow.

“The sheets?” She said, “I would call them dear indeed. My one indulgence.”

“The reporters,” Queen corrected her. “It is not quite such a noble profession as one might think. Attracts a lot of men with debts.”

“Every industry has men with debts,” Diggle said, surprising Felicity since he was generally so quiet in her presence, “reporters are no different from the rest.”

“Well,” Felicity huffed, “there goes my faith in the written word.”

“Then be reassured,” Queen said, “tonight our target is a man who exploits debt, taking from those under threat of the bailiffs and extorting them for his own profit. Kenwood Williams.”

“Kenwood Williams,” Felicity repeated, “I know that name.”

“The Hood will visit him tonight,” Queen said, “and he will return the money he took.”

“And if he does not?” Felicity demanded, “what then? Will you treat him as if he was nothing more than a straw target for your arrows?”

“He will return the money,” Queen said, but he had already donned his leathers and cape and Felicity knew her point had not yet been made.

“Mr Kenwood Williams is a client of mine,” she said, planting herself firmly between Queen and the door. “He has a young son. He was widowed not two winters back. He may be less than savoury in his professional habits but that is not a crime for which the death penalty is pronounced in any court.”

Queen went to step around her and she intentionally shifted so as to keep her body between him and his nightly plans.

“You need to move, Miss Smoak,” Queen said his jaw clenched.

“No,” she replied, surprising even herself with her determination. “I will not, and you, as a gentleman, would not lay hands upon a lady.”

“The Hood is no gentleman,” Queen gritted. Felicity swore she could hear his teeth grinding. He attempted once more to sidestep her and she reacted, but in doing so they breached the boundaries of decorum and she found herself pressed almost to his chest.

Felicity looked up, suddenly aware of just how large Queen was. With his easy smile and charming manner he never seemed to loom over her, but here, in his leather garb and with the hood of his cloak up and over his face, she felt more than a little fragile.

She could see the shadow of stubble just appearing along the edge of his jaw. 

The moment lengthened and Felicity became suddenly aware of just how many rules they were breaking. 

Suddenly flustered she stepped back, smoothing non-existent wrinkles out of her dress.

“I made a mistake,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady and not show the effect he had on her.

“Getting in my way?” Queen said, “I don't disagree.”

“Signing on with you,” Felicity replied, “even provisionally.”

Holding her head high she turned her back on him, and was momentarily frozen in her step by the sight of John Diggle grinning widely. Putting the former soldier, and his incongruous smile, out of her head she strode confidently out of Queen’s warehouse office, determined to put both the man himself and his insane crusade out of her life.

* * *

She returned to her shop to find a customer waiting on her doorstep. The unexpected appearance of an unfamiliar client, combined with the lingering emotional effects of her confrontation with Queen was enough to send her into a nervous fluster.

“I am so sorry sir!” She babbled, “the master - my father - is away this morning, and I was detained on errands elsewhere. I assure you, we are open.”

“That’s quite alright, my dear,” the man said and Felicity could hear his aristocratic accent. A voice much more polished than Queen’s. 

She hated herself for making the comparison. Oliver Queen had been a figure in her life for so short a time, she should not find it so hard to forget him.

“I have an item in need of repair,” the man said, “a very unique item which will require both of your master’s crafts.”

“Both?”

“Indeed, my dear, this particular commission requires both a locksmith and a clockmaker. As your master is both, he seems an ideal fit.”

“Why don't you come in, sir?” Felicity said, “and if you tell me your requirements, I can inform the master.”

“That sounds most satisfactory,” the man said, and if his smile seemed unsettling to Felicity, she reminded herself that it was purely the lingering effects of Oliver Queen and nothing more.

* * *

While the repair job was intricate, it was not lengthy and she had already dispatched the clockwork lock back to its owner by way of one of the more reliable street urchins when the next client arrived.

“I placed a wager with myself as to how long it would take you to visit and ask me to keep your secret,” she said seeing Queen waiting by the counter when she emerged from the workshop. “It appears I would have won several shillings had I only had someone to bet against me.”

“Miss Smoak,” Queen said. 

“Miss Smoak,” a second voice added and Felicity turned to see John Diggle standing in the shadows. By any reasonable standards she should have felt intimidated, but the memory of his odd smile at her previous departure prompted her to nod to him, and she was gratified to see the gesture returned.

“I would like to apologise, Miss Smoak,” Queen said, taking off his hat and looking more like a chastised schoolboy than she had ever thought a man of his size could. “I was not myself last night, I acted ungentlemanly.”

“And Mr Williams?” She asked, “did he also experience your ungentlemanlike behaviour?”

“He returned the money stolen in time to read his son a good night tale.”

“You did not shoot him?”

“I did not shoot him.”

Felicity let out a sigh of relief.

“I am glad, Mr Queen.”

“Thank you, Miss Smoak,” he said, nodding his head. “I would say in my defence that Mr Kenwood William’s name is in my book, and that he is, in fact, a thief and extortor.”

“That may well be true,” Felicity replied, “but as I said to you last night neither of those is a capital crime.”

“Depends on which law books you use,” Queen countered, “her Majesty’s justice system has much to recommend it but clarity of purpose is not among its virtues.”

“Having never ventured south of the law until you entered my life I would not know,” Felicity replied. “But let us put that aside. I find your faith in your book of names somewhat concerning. Did you not confess to Mr Diggle and I just the other day that its meaning is still a mystery to you?”

“My father gave me this book,” Queen said. But then he paused and sighed. “But that is not to say there are not criminals whose names I do not know. I noticed this in the news sheets this morning.”

He withdrew an inky smudged piece of paper from within his jacket and handed it to her.

“’The Dodger strikes again,’” she read aloud. “The Dodger? I do not know this name and I consider myself am avid reader of news.”

“He may have previously paid to keep his name out of the headlines,” Queen said, “but it matters not. The papers, in their wisdom, name him ’Dodger’, but the truth of it is he rarely dirties his hands with crimes that he can compel others to commit.”

Felicity shivered.

“Compel?”

“He has devised an explosive,” Queen said, “which he attaches to his victims. It's an ingenious tool, a miracle of miniaturisation. A clockwork timer attached to a belt of dynamite fashioned in such a way that the victim cannot remove it without detonation.”

Felicity stiffened in her step.

“A clockwork timer concealed within a lock,” she said, half to herself.

“Yes,” said Queen, “I thought you had not heard of him.”

“Oh, Mr Queen,” Felicity said, the heavy weight of realisation landing upon her, “it is so much worse than that.”


	4. The auction house

“How could you have been so stupid?”

Felicity blinked.

“Excuse me?”

Queen glowered at her and she felt her hackles rise as if she was in truth some sort of cornered animal.

“Forgive me, Mr Queen,” Felicity said, striving to keep her tone pleasant but also convey her current feelings of scornful derision to the absolute extent polite society allowed, “I was not aware that performing what seemed to me merely an unusual task and not an illegal one was something stupid. It is my responsibility - nay, my legacy - to maintain this shop and the reputation of my father and his father before him, and I cannot do that if I question my clients as to what they will be doing with my work when they leave. After all, they value my _discretion_.”

Queen said nothing, but she had the distinct impression he was grinding his teeth. She didn’t look to check.

“If you ask me if I regret my actions,” she said, slightly more contrite, “then I would say that I do, but I had no way of knowing at the time what my work for this gentleman would result in.”

“Of course you didn’t,” John Diggle said.

Felicity looked up to see him, standing beside her as if he was facing off against Queen. 

“We all must earn a living,” the former whaler said, “and none of our hands are truly clean.”

“Thank you Mr Diggle,” Felicity said. John Diggle looked down at her with raised eyebrows, as if he hadn’t expected her thanks. He looked so genuinely perplexed that she instinctively reached out and squeezed his arm in acknowledgement.

Seeing her pale hand on his dark skin, Felicity immediately realised just how many rules of society she had breached, but then Diggle blinked at her and grinned, his white teeth standing out so brightly, and she couldn't help but smile in return.

After all, they were outlaws, or at least Queen was, and they his accomplishes. What were the rules of society in comparison to their secret trust?

Diggle lifted his gaze from hers to look defiantly at his employer and Felicity let herself follow suit.

“Alright, alright,” Queen said, “we’ve established that blame is an unprofitable course here. How do you propose we stop this Dodger?”

“Well,” Felicity said, stepping away from Diggle to retrieve the morning’s newspaper from the side table, “the newspapers say he is a thief of jewellery but I do not know where we might source a piece to serve as the necessary bait.”

“You really have no idea the extent of the Queen fortune, do you?” Diggle said, and Felicity looked up from the smudged newsprint.

“Sotherby’s has some pieces from my grandmother’s collection on display currently,” Queen said, before she could retort that she was well aware of his family’s influence. “Perhaps we could use their showing this evening to lure the Dodger into the open.”

“Perhaps,” Felicity admitted, thinking privately it sounded a suitable plan but not quite yet willing to forgive Queen for his earlier tone. “It may suffice.”

“But you cannot attend as you are,” Queen said, “you must fit in amongst the crowd.”

Felicity bristled, then reminded herself to keep her peace.

“I shall see you there at eight,” she said.

“Miss Smoak-”

“You are not the only one with family resources, Mr Queen,” she said tartly, “I will see you there at eight, suitably attired of course.”

“Of course,” he echoed, and she took pride in the perplexed tone he had as she took her leave and steeled herself to visit her aunts and ask a favour. 

* * *

Her father may have been a working man, but her mother was a younger daughter of the gentry, though one of such limited fortune that a love match with a master craftsman was hardly scandalous. Her aunts married better, one taking a banker and the other a barrister who later ascended to the bench. Neither man had been young when they wed, and with the dedication they had to their professional lives both died young too. Both widowed within six months of each other, Felicity’s aunts, Mrs Meredith Wimslow and Mrs Elizabeth Sanderson, combined their households and dedicated their lives, at least to the extent she was able to perceive, to marrying off all the children to result from the marriages of all three sisters. There had been sons, three of them, her cousins, and all were successfully married off to women equal or superior to their stations. Felicity was the sole spinster - a fact her aunts reminded her of at every family function she was obliged to attend.

Still being the only girl had some benefits. In her wardrobe in her rooms above the shop she had cotton and lanolin, she had tweed and wool. In the wardrobe kept for her by her aunts in their townhouse on Tavistock Square there were silks.

And so she went to Tavistock. 

Aunt Meredith was delighted to hear that Felicity had an evening invitation to a Sotheby’s viewing. Aunt Elizabeth showed more suspicion but both were clearly happy to see their only niece properly attired. Meredith went so far as to even lend out their driver for the evening.

She entered the reception at Sotherby’s in a gold silk dress. Her aunts’ maid had helped her secure her hair into a suitable weave and had dotted some rouge upon her cheeks. Her feet were hidden beneath the skirt of her dress, which was all for the best really, as she had eschewed the delicate jewelled slippers she was supposed to wear in favour of more practical boots. If she needed to she would be able to hoist up her skirts and run, though she did hope that wouldn't be necessary. She had also managed to secure some of her lock picking tools amongst her underskirts. Just in case.

She felt very ready to deal with whatever the evening would bring. Which was, of course, her first mistake.

On arrival she sought out Oliver Queen, and felt slightly gratified at the expression that crossed his face when he spied her. 

“But where did you get the dress?” He asked as he inclined his head in greeting.

“My aunts,” she replied simply, bobbing in a curtsey. 

Queen said nothing to that, which surprised her, but she had no time to dwell on it for John Diggle stepped up, impressively attired all black in an evening suit.

“You are a vision, Miss Smoak,” Diggle said.

“As are you, Mr Diggle.”

Diggle seemed to try to smile but instead his eyes darted around the room. It was obvious this was not the sort of company he considered himself at home in, and as she followed his gaze she noticed the glances and sly looks from the other guests. Diggle, it seemed, was the source of much speculation, the only man of his skin colour in the room and in the company of Oliver Queen to boot. Felicity realised the three of them might pose enough of a curiosity as to be mentioned in tomorrow morning’s gossip columns. She wondered what her aunts would say to that.

“I'm not sure my attending was wise,” Diggle said.

“Nonsense,” Queen replied, “I’ll spend more than enough to make up for whatever prejudices they have. I need you at my side tonight. We cannot miss our quarry.”

Diggle nodded but did not relax. 

“We must circulate,” Queen declared, “I must be seen to be social, and Miss Smoak must identify our errant thief. We will meet here on the quarter past the hour.”

Diggle nodded and stepped back, seemingly determined to find a shadow to lurk in. Felicity turned to say something to Queen and found he had already walked away. Sniffing at his rudeness for departing without parting words, she set herself to the task and began to walk the room.

She didn't often spend time in silks and satins. She didn't often attend events of this ilk, though her aunts invited her often enough.

It always seemed so fake, the quest to catch a husband. Felicity could not imagine a man who would allow her to continue her work at the shop after they were wed, and she found, more and more, that her work was her main joy in life, and that she never wished to be without it. 

Perhaps she would be a spinster for life then, and remain part of Oliver Queen’s gang of vigilantes. She could certainly do some good there.

So compelling were her thoughts that she almost walked straight past the cabinet that held the Queen family jewellery. 

There were three pieces: a necklace, a ring, and a broach. All were lovely but there was something about the broach that attracted her attention. The design was distinctly Spanish, and it was only as she looked at it that her brain offered up the information, clear as if it was written on a library card.

Ominous decade. The last ten years of Ferdinand’s reign. 

Just like all the other pieces the Dodger was reputed to have stolen.

Lord help her, the man had a fixation!

She spun on the spot, determined to find Queen and tell him, but she didn't even make it one step.

A hand came down on her arm, and she felt a sharp pressure against the back of her neck.

“Don't struggle,” he said, and she knew the voice.

“I could scream,” she said, inwardly surprised at how calm her voice sounded.

“And I could pull this trigger,” her former client said, an edge of amusement in his tone, “and then neither of us would have a very pleasant evening, though yours would, I fear, be worse.”

Felicity looked around, but neither Queen nor Diggle were in sight. And the rest of the notables in attendance seemed far more interested in the antiquities on display than the fact she had a derringer pistol pressed against her neck.

“Now now,” the Dodger said, “I'm sure a locksmith of your _father’s_ talents will have no trouble with my little toy. What a shame he isn’t here. Hush now, I’ll be sure to give you _just_ enough time for your journey back to Clerkenwell. Though I’ll leave no time at all for you to, for example, talk to the constabulary.”

Felicity met his gaze and shivered. His eyes were cold and she had no doubt that whatever amount of time he gave her, it would never be enough to save her life if she followed his instructions. No, she would have to trust herself and her own skills.

And so she lifted her chin and let him escort her from the room and lock her into the device she had made for him only hours before.


	5. The collar

The clockwork lock Felicity had fixed for the Dodger was just one part of the tool he employed to restrain her. First there was a thick collar filled with, he informed her with undisguised merriment, gunpowder. Then a metal contraption to hold the collar in place, and then, finally the clockwork lock.

“I will set a suitable amount of time on her clock,” the Dodger informed her, “enough to facilitate a swift journey back to Clerkenwell, as I promised. When that time runs out, or should your father attempt to remove the collar without unlocking the timer first, a spark will be struck within this box and the gunpowder will ignite.”

“You contrived a mechanical flint?” She asked, her curiosity outweighing her fear momentarily.

“One of your father’s ilk created that particular marvel,” he admitted. 

“Ingenious,” she replied, “did you lock him into his own device too?”

“He did not get in my way,” the thief said. “Only those who do suffer the consequences.”

Felicity bit down on a retort, the collar was locked in place around her neck and the clock was already ticking and she had no idea how many seconds the cad in front of her had decided remained in her life. A Hackney carriage could cross the city from Mayfair to Clerkenwell in less than half of one hour, but she knew from her work with the mechanism that the clock would not wind beyond 20 minutes. A fast driver might be able to travel the distance on empty streets in that time but even then she would be barely through the door before the dammed contraception would detonate.

No, her life now lay in her own hands. She prayed they were steady enough.

She was roused from her thoughts by the thief abruptly spinning her into the wall. She raised her hands to catch herself but shock still took her breath away.

“Kindly place your hands behind your back,” the Dodger said, his mouth uncomfortably close to her ear. She could feel his breath on her skin and couldn't suppress her flinch. He laughed and her skin crawled.

His hands reached up and wrenched her wrists down and behind her and she felt cold metal press into her skin.

“Please,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “please do not chain me. You have your bounty, take it and go. Leave me be.”

“I think not,” he said, and pushed her. Felicity fell, landing on a nearby fainting couch. The impact knocked the air from her as she could not use her arms to break her fall. 

By the time she had recovered herself and raised her eyes to look around the room he was gone.

Felicity lifted herself to her knees and then, with difficulty, to her feet. She had never before realised how much she relied upon her arms for balance and having her wrists pinned behind her made her feel very unsteady.

She thanked the Lord above for her decision to wear boots beneath her gown. She would certainly have not been able to stand up in the jewelled heeled slippers intended to accompany this dress.

Quickly she crossed the room to where a gilt edged mirror hung upon the wall. She almost didn't recognise the woman she saw framed there. Yes, it was her dress and her face, but her hair was loose and her skin overly pale. The horrible collar around her neck gave her the appearance of a chained animal, and the fact that the lock upon it was work she had been proud of was truly dreadful.

She looked a state, and it was clear to her that even if her father was alive, and if she ran to him, there would be no driver willing to dare the dash across town on the word of a bound madwoman. She would die begging for help.

She would die alone.

She twisted, attempting to see the restraints around her wrists and was relieved to note they were the standard model from Scotland Yard. These she could talk Queen or Diggle through unlocking, and then she would save herself.

A plan decided upon she ran out of the room, praising again her choice to wear boots, but despairing that her hands were bound and she could not lift her skirts to move faster.

She had barely gone ten feet down the corridor before she saw Diggle appear in an intersection in front of her.

“Miss Smoak,” he greeted her, and then his normally expressionless face took on a stoney facade.

“Can you pick handcuffs?” She asked, breathless.

“Mr Queen can.”

“We must find him. I don’t have much time,” she said and he nodded.

Diggle hurried her through the corridors, occasionally guiding her with a hand on her bound wrists to steady her gait.

He left her for only a second to retrieve Queen from what looked to be a private gallery, and when they returned she was surprised to see that Queen’s necktie was loose and his expression merry.

He sobered instantly upon seeing her, dropping his merriment as if it were a mask, and of course, she realised, it was.

“He was here?” Queen said.

“Yes, he was,” she replied, “and he did not appreciate seeing me again.”

Queen leaned in, peering at the collar.

“Forgive my nearness,” he said absently as his eyes narrowed and he reached for the device.

“No!” She cried, startling both him and herself.

“Felicity, I cannot help you if I must respect society’s ridiculous concepts of decorum,” Queen said testily.

“You can free my hands, sir,” she replied, “I will handle this damnable necklace. The mechanism is delicate enough I would trust none but myself to disarm it. All I need your hands to do is release mine.”

Queen stepped around her, vanishing from her sight.

“And if,” she continued, letting her nervousness out in a form her aunts would definitely have termed babbling, “you think for one second I would let decorum detach my head from my body, you are as big of a fool as the man who sold you that necktie.”

“You don't like my tie?” She heard him say from behind her.

“The pattern is gauche,” she replied tartly, “and the silk appears subpar.”

To her left Diggle chuckled. She smiled at him. It was nice to have her opinion confirmed, even in times as dire as this.

“Do you have any lockpicks with you?” Queen said, “I need something thin for this.”

“In the pocket of my innermost petticoat,” Felicity replied. She shifted slightly to confirm it. “I can feel it just above my left knee.”

There was a pause.

“Mister Queen,” she said coldly, “if you don’t put your hand up my skirt right now and retrieve those tools I swear I will haunt you.”

“Indeed,” Queen replied and she felt his hand wrap gently around her calf and move up. As he reached higher his touch moved from boot to stocking and she could feel the warmth of his palm through the thin material.

And then he found the small velvet tool roll she had slipped into the petticoat pocket she knew other women kept needlework in and his hand was gone.

Her skin tingled where he had touched her and she had to swallow twice to collect herself.

“In hindsight,” Felicity said, as Queen used her tools on the handcuffs, “perhaps the man who sold you that necktie was not a fool. He was, after all, able to sell it on to someone willing to be seen in it in public.”

“But who sold it to him for his shop?” Queen replied, “Or did he make it, in which case the responsibility for the choice of fabric can be passed to no one but him?”

“So you agree it is an unfortunate pattern?” Felicity said, but Queen did not have time to answer as she felt the metal unlock from around her hands, and said instead, “Thank God!”

She swayed on her feet as her arms were released and John Diggle was suddenly there, catching her elbow with one hand an resting the other on her lower back, steadying her.

She smiled at him thankfully.

“Now,” she said, “I need a mirror.”

“Do you need help?” Queen said, directing her into a nearby drawing room blessed with a large mirror over the fireplace.

“I need my tools,” she said, “I need light, and I need you to find the Dodger and treat him as one of your straw targets.”

“Gladly,” Queen said, and then he was running.

Diggle lifted the embroidered lamp shade off of a nearby gas fitting and turned the fuel up. Light flooded the room and Felicity turned her attention to the mirror.

She knew this lock. She could crack it.

Diggle, devoid of anything further to do once all the lamps were naked and at their highest came and stood beside her, meeting her eyes in the mirror.

“You should go,” she said, “I do not wish to see you harmed.”

Diggle smiled and raised one large hand to squeeze her shoulder. It seemed their language was one of touch, and his hand on her shoulder gave her comfort.

Queen’s hand on her leg however...

Felicity banished the thought from her head before she could finish it and concentrated on the lock in front of her.

All locks open, eventually. It was just a question of finding the right key.

Time seemed to slow down as she worked, which she appreciated as time was not something she had in abundance.

It seemed as if she was wasting hours opening the mechanism and delicately teasing each of the cogs apart, and even though she knew she did not have hours, only minutes, the illusion remained.

Finally, the last cylinder clicked into place and the lock sprang open.

Felicity stared at it, dumbfounded, for half a second and then John Diggle snatched it from around her neck.

He looked around, obviously looking for somewhere to dispose of the explosive.

Felicity looked down and saw the coal scuttle - it was one of the type that had a two doors at the front rather than an open top.

She pulled open the doors - heavy, had to be made of iron - and saw that the auctioneer’s servants had apparently missed this room when refilling the coal. The scuttle was mostly empty and it looked very solid.

“John,” she cried, and he turned and saw her intention. He threw the collar into the scuttle, slammed the doors and thrust a poker through the handles to hold them closed. And then he had his hand on her arm and was pulling her towards the door.

Suddenly there came a dull thump, and Felicity turned, realising the collar had detonated.

Dark smoke seeped past the hinges of the coal scuttle but the iron box was fundamental intact.

“I thought it was be louder,” she said, dully.

“Loud enough,” Diggle replied and she took his meaning. Although the powder had been contained by the scuttle, it would have been more than enough to decapitate her.

Felicity raises her hand to her throat feeling where the collar had pressed into her skin only moments before.

The timer had been shorter than the Dodger had promised. She would have died in a cab without Queen and Diggle.

She turned to look at Diggle and saw the same knowledge on his face.

“All will be well,” he said and the statement was so incongruous she couldn't help but laugh.

* * *

He escorted her out through the main ball room, but any worries Felicity might have had for their state of disarray attracting the wrong attention were unfounded.

The air was full of stories of the Hood and his appearance and the notables of society had no time for Felicity and Diggle, however strange their appearance must have been.

Outside the main doors people also gathered, peering around each other in an attempt to see just what all the commotion was about.

Diggle guided her through the shadows and they were able to make it down the street and away. As they turned the corner, Felicity glanced back in time to see Detective Inspector Lance put his own handcuffs around the wrists of the Dodger.

The Dodger who had a green fletched arrow in his shoulder. Something none of the officers in attendance seemed to give two figs about.

Felicity breathed a sigh of relief and then Diggle was hailing a Hackney carriage and her route home was assured.

As Diggle closed the carriage door and the driver urged the horse into movement Felicity happened to glance up.

There, silhouetted against the moon, was a familiar shape in a hood.

She fancied he nodded to her, but it could have been her imagination.

It had, after all, been a very trying evening.


	6. The pocketbook

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a dead assassin and his pocketbook of mysteries perplex our intrepid Miss Smoak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again I wish to reiterate, this contains era appropriate language and attitudes about race. No offence is intended.

It had been a quiet fortnight. Felicity had spent a lot of time at Queen’s warehouse offices sharpening her skills; both at lock-picking, and, at John Diggle’s insistence, the martial arts.

It was strange - by any and all rules of society she should not talk to him, let alone touch him. She, an unmarried, potentially unmarriagable, member of the lower middle class (albeit with her own secrets to hide) and he, a Negro of no name or station. But she had long ago decided that a society which thought she could have no worth beyond marriage due to her sex was a foolish one. It did not take much for her to extend that view to encompass race as well.

It was an odd friendship that had grown between them, but she cherished it all the same. Queen was solidly their lord and master, however little respect they paid him. He was the purse and the plans - it was his pocketbook they used to guide their actions and his hand on the bow that was their motif.

It was in his shadow they found their comradeship, and after Diggle had explained, in his halting way, that he could teach her how to prevent falling victim to another of the Dodger’s ilk, she could see no reason not to take him up on it.

They started with grips. Diggle showed her how she should hold her father’s revolver to reduce recoil, and then he showed her how to snatch a weapon from the hands of the assailant who held it upon her. She had quick and nimble fingers and she soon learned how to twist her wrists to break a grip and which part of the thumb should be bent backwards to incapacitate an attacker.

Felicity felt flushed with a sense of accomplishment; she took joy in her new knowledge, and felt like she would not be so easy a mark in future.

Diggle started to demonstrate a move, one which would require their bodies to be much closer than they had ever been before. Much closer than any man had ever been to her before.

She was determined not to dwell upon it, but the nearness of his frame, and those especially defined arms of his, distracted her, and despite her best intentions she landed hard upon the floor, losing her breath at the impact.

Which was of course the moment Queen entered the room.

Felicity looked up to see him in a foul temper.

“What happened?” She said, pushing herself to her feet and brushing sawdust from the plain dress she preferred to wear while working. It had the most practical pockets.

“The assassin is dead,” Queen said shortly and turned from her.

“Was that not your intent?” Felicity asked, confused.

“We do not know his target,” Diggle explained, “another gun can be easily hired.”

“Ah,” Felicity said. “What now?”

“That is rather up to you,” Queen said as he placed a battered leather pocketbook in front of her. “How are your skills at cracking locks made purely of numbers?”

Felicity blinked.

“The book is in code,” Queen explained, “the target’s name is in here, but I will admit, mysteries of logic are not my speciality.”

Felicity cast a questioning glance at Diggle and was rewarded with a skeptical eyebrow.

“I do enjoy the puzzles they sometimes print in _The Times_ ," she admitted, “maybe I could decipher it. Given time.”

“Time is something we do not have,” Queen said.

“Time is something we never have,” Felicity retorted, “all our work is pressing.” She looked at the book, neat numbers in columns, letters in a seemingly random order. “I will need paper,” she said, “and space in which to work.”

“Right this way, Miss Smoak,” Queen said, and led her to his desk.

* * *

Felicity was aware of Oliver Queen’s friendship with the dashing Captain Tom Merlyn of Prince Albert’s own Hussars. Named the Cherry-pickers for their exploits in the Napoleonic wars, they were known about town for their unique crimson trousers, the colours of their late patron, the Queen-Empress' beloved husband. Their youthful exploits had once been the favoured subject of the gossip columns, though Captain Merlyn featured as often for his apparently fractious relationship with his father Lord Merlyn as for the more scandalous of exploits with Queen.

She had however not expected to see him in Oliver Queen’s warehouse offices. 

She was sequestered away, her notes on the pocketbook around her, when she heard the door slam open. 

Mindful of her martial inexperience despite Diggle’s teachings, she crouched beneath the desk, knowing that Queen was somewhere nearby and would deal with any intruders.

“Queen!” Someone yelled. It was a confident voice, one used to being obeyed. “Come out and face me!”

“Tom?” Queen said, appearing from behind some crates, “what the Devil, man?”

“You!” Merlyn declared, and shifting to the right Felicity could just about see him through the pillars and boxes. He was, as reported, a handsome man, with an impressive moustache. His uniform suited him in its finery. 

As she watched he drew his sabre and gestured with it aggressively. She clutched the pocketbook closer to her chest in fear. 

And then suddenly Merlyn sagged and let his sabre droop.

“You missed my birthday,” he said.

“Oh, Tom,” Queen said, stepping in and grasping his shoulder. “You knew I couldn't attend. What happened?”

“My father,” Merlyn said, “my father happened.”

“Come into my office, Merlyn,” Queen said, “I have some rather good cognacs I'm considering importing in bulk. Help me make a decision as to which one it should be.”

Captain Merlyn nodded without looking at Queen. His eyes were fixed on the floor.

“Come on, Tom,” Queen said, and both men passed out of Felicity’s sight.

* * *

It took her a while to be sure of what she was seeing in the numbers, but soon enough she was able to confidently say that she had found something. 

Two words: Jade Dragon.

The rest of the page was still a mystery to her and she could not rightly say why these words were clear and others were not, but clear they were and she knew they must mean something. She was just uncertain what that could be.

“It's an opium den,” Oliver Queen said, “I've been there with Tom.”

Behind him Diggle snorted, sounding amused.

“Mr Queen,” Felicity said, more than a little shocked, “that is not proper.”

“I haven't frequented the place for some time,” Queen replied, “not for, oh, five years or so.”

So this was a place of his pre-exile acquaintance. Felicity nodded to herself, reassured somehow.

“It is more than an opium den,” Diggle said.

“There’s gambling,” Queen replied, “and as with most opium dens, drink and companionship are available.”

“Mr Queen!”

“Miss Smoak,” Queen said, sounding put out, “again, I am not saying I have indulged in either of those particular vices.”

“It is not proper,” she said, primly.

Queen raised an eyebrow.

“I do not think you have any right to judge me,” he said, “I well know your regard for propriety. Tell me, what was you said you would do if I didn't reach under your skirts? Hmm?”

“Those were different circumstances,” she replied, tartly.

“Indeed,” he said, and Felicity suddenly realised how close the two of them had become in their heated moment. He was now within a foot of her, his blue eyes glaring down at hers so closely that she could see the different flecks of colour in them.

He seemed to notice her nearness in the same instant, and the two of them stared at each other. Felicity remembered the heat of his touch on her stocking and felt her cheeks threaten to blush.

“It is a facade,” Diggle said, and Felicity and Oliver sprang apart, as if it was only silence that had maintained their proximity.

“Excuse me?” Felicity said. The flush upon her cheeks had not, it seemed, manifested and she was glad of their return to the subject at hand.

“The opium den,” Diggle said, “it is more than that. The oriental gangs run out of Jade Dragon.”

“Indeed?” Queen said. He ran a hand over his already perfectly straight necktie, seemingly wishing to straighten it further, “well then I suppose I should pay them a visit.”

Felicity pursed her lips but said nothing. She did not approve of opium, but she saw no other path if they wished to prevent this assassination.

“I will need an excuse,” Queen mused, “but I did just miss Tom’s birthday.” He smiled, “And a notorious reprobate like Merlyn is bound to still be known at Jade Dragon.”

Diggle nodded, seemingly satisfied.

“But you should continue your work on the book,” Queen added. “I do not think we wish to stake anyone’s life on my ability to blend in amongst poppy fiends.”

“Of course,” Felicity said, “though if I were to believe everything I read in the papers I would have no doubt of your familiarity with such establishments.”

“Miss Smoak, you wound me,” Queen said, but he was smiling. “I thought you believed better of me.”

“We shall see,” Felicity said and turned back to her work.

“Yes,” she heard Queen say, “I do believe we will.”


	7. The bullet

“It happens tomorrow,” Queen announced.

Felicity jumped in her seat, unsettling the many pieces of paper around her. 

“Nervous,” Queen said, raising one eyebrow in what Felicity privately termed a very aggravating manner.

“Not at all,” she said, smoothing her skirts, “you startled me, is all.”

“My apologies,” he said and suddenly swept into a bow.

Felicity almost jumped again.

“Mr Queen?”

“At your service,” Queen said, “my dear Miss Smoak.” He stayed bent in his bow and held out a hand to her.

“I’m not your dear anything,” Felicity said, stepping back from him.

“You are no fun,” Queen declared as he rose from his bow.

Felicity blinked then looked closer.

“Mr Queen,” she asked, “are you drunk?”

“I am but mildly inebriated,” Queen said stiffly, “it was, after all, an opium den.”

“Mr Queen!” Felicity said, scandalised.

“Be satisfied,” Queen said, “that I am in full control of my faculties. There are many who would not be, had they traveled my path.”

Felicity restricted her commentary on this to a single raised eyebrow.

“It happens tomorrow,” Queen repeated, then withdrew, leaving Felicity mercifully alone with her work. 

Deciphering the assassin’s notebook was a trying task, so much so that when all at once the words and number began to make sense she almost didn't believe her eyes.

Then she read it a second time and felt a cold shiver go down her spine.

Malcolm Merlyn.

Lord and industrialist, member of Parliament, friend to the Queen.

And Captain Merlyn’s father.

Felicity picked up her skirts and ran across the floor to the office.

“Oliver,” she said, forgetting propriety as she opened the door.

He blinked up at her from his position on the camp bed.

“Miss Smoak?”

“The target,” she said, breathless, “I know who the target is.” She forced herself to slow down, regulate her breathing. “It's Lord Merlyn.”

Queen’s face changed at the revelation. It was as if he became the Hood without all of the accoutrements. His features seemed to harden, and all at once she feared for his enemies.

“The ball,” he said, “it will happen tonight.”

“I can get a dress,” she said, thinking of another visit to Tavistock and her aunts. Maybe she should wear the red silk?

“No,” Queen said harshly, “I won't have you risk yourself.”

“Mr Queen,” Felicity gasped, “it is my life to risk.”

“You survived Sotherby’s,” Queen said, “and that was just a drinks reception. I will not take you to a ball where I know there is an assassin waiting. Do not ask me again.”

Felicity bristled with indignation. Queen would not place such a restriction on Diggle. She hated that he was suddenly making choices based on her gender.

Just like everyone else did.

She smiled thinly.

“Because I am a woman,” she said, taking no care at all to hide the bitterness in her voice.

“Because you are Felicity Smoak,” Queen said, stepping closer and in doing so forcing her to tip her chin up to look at him. “You are remarkable and irreplaceable and I will not lose you.”

Felicity blinked, her anger lost in the nearness of his presence. Did he really mean - 

“Diggle will stay with you,” Queen said, breaking the spell of silence and stepping past her. The strange tenderness was gone from his tone, the regular brusqueness returned. “I will not risk my concentration wavering. I must reserve all of my attention for saving Tom’s father.”

“Mr Queen,” she started, then hesitated, unsure of her words.

“The topic is closed Miss Smoak,” Queen said, “and now if you will excuse me, I must dress for the evening.”

And with that he was gone, away into the darker recesses of the warehouse.

Felicity smoothed down her skirt and tried to reason with herself. Queen was possibly still inebriated from his reconnaissance. He meant she was invaluable to their cause, their team, not he himself. He would not wish to lose so valuable a resource.

She nodded to herself, satisfied with her own explanation, and went to see if there was anything else she could find in the notebook.

* * *

Waiting was intolerable.

Felicity paced. Then Felicity sat, wringing her hands together. Then she attempted to work at her desk but her fingers felt dull and she couldn't make her tools do what she wanted. 

Then she paced again.

Diggle watched without commentary.

The fourth time the pattern repeated he stepped in and caught her arm.

She raised her eyebrow in a questioning look but he said nothing, just gently pulled her into a seat beside him and started to teach her how to clean a rifle.

The combination of new knowledge and the repetitive nature of the work soothed her and they worked together, repairing and cleaning the entire armoury for several hours.

Queen returned a little after midnight.

Her first thought was that he looked unharmed and she felt her heart respond to that. 

“Merlyn?” Diggle asked as several hours of silence appeared to have left Felicity speechless.

“Recovering,” Queen said and lay his bow down on a nearby tabletop. “He was shot but the wound wasn’t fatal.” He looked away. “Tom was there, I had to step in, reveal myself.”

“Reveal yourself as... the Hood?” Felicity asked, confused.

“Yes.”

“But... if the wound wasn't fatal?”

“The wound wasn't fatal,” Queen said, not looking at either of them, “the bullet was.”

Out of the corner of her eye Felicity saw Diggle stiffen. She turned to him, intending to ask what was wrong but his attention wasn't on her. His eyes were fixed on Queen.

“Yes, Diggle,” Queen said, meeting the gaze of his compatriot, “the bullet was laced with curare.”

Diggle’s reaction was immediate. His jaw set, his hands curled into fists. Felicity swore she could see the muscles in his skin harden as if into oak.

Abruptly he turned and walked away, moving with purpose.

“Diggle?” She asked, but not answer was forthcoming.

She turned her confusion to Queen.

“The assassin laced his bullets with a rare poison,” Queen explained without further prompting. “It is that, rather than the wound, that kills. I was able to administer a partial curative to Merlyn but needed Tom’s help to do so. He would not let me near hooded and so I took down my hood. To save his father.”

“I see,” Felicity said, “but Diggle?”

“Diggle and I have faced this assassin before,” Queen said, “we thought him vanquished. Apparently we were wrong.”

“That,” Felicity said waving a hand in the direction Diggle departed in, “is not disappointment.”

“No,” Queen said. “It is vengeance. This assassin, this Deadshot as he is known, killed Diggle’s brother.”

“Oh,” Felicity said. “Well, that will not stand.”

“Indeed,” Queen replied.

“We will end this Deadshot,” Felicity said, feeling in her bones the need to both comfort Diggle and end the cause of his pain and suffering.

“Indeed we will,” Queen said, reaching out to grasp her shoulder in the same comradely manner she had so often seen him touch Diggle in. “We will rid John and the world of this curse. Together.”

“Together,” Felicity repeated, feeling the weight of the words. “Yes.”


	8. The huntress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss Felicity Smoak makes the unwelcome acquaintaince of Helena Bertinelli

The consequences of Queen’s secret spreading to a fourth person had not yet begun to present themselves when Felicity was faced with the startling revelation that his number of confidantes might not be anywhere near that low.

“You will assist me,” she heard as she walked into the empty offices of the Verdant Trading Company. The voice was completely unfamiliar, and more surprising than that, female.

“I will assist you only because you extorted it from me,” she heard Queen snarl. Never in all of her acquaintance with him had he sounded so enraged. “You injured Merlyn, and threatened my family! I had no choice.”

“Your motivations are none of my concern,” the unknown woman replied, “I need only your skills - and resources. I have a tricky problem of the sort I hear you have solved before.”

“And yet it remains unsolved. I have no earthly idea where the authorities are holding Don Bertinelli, and the ledger you claim holds the secret is incomprehensible to me!”

Felicity rounded the corner to see Queen glowering at a richly dressed dark haired young woman. They were clearly of acquaintance for the woman to be allowed into this part of the office and Queen was displaying his vigilante habits rather than hiding behind his foppish reputation.

Apparently Captain Merlyn was only the fifth individual to learn Queen’s secret. This woman, whoever she was, was looking for the help of the Hood, not a mere importer.  
Felicity pursed her lips, then realised the content of Queen’s last outburst. An incomprehensible ledger.

“I could try and decode that for you,” Felicity said, “I enjoyed the last cypher you presented me with.”

“No!” Queen said, turning his rage upon her. “Get out! Out now!”

Felicity blinked. Never had he spoken to her in such a tone. She felt immediately chastised, and then embarrassed. Here it was again, the difference in their social status presented so aggressively. After all they had gone through together she had almost forgotten that he was the son of a knight, the adopted son of a Lord and perfectly entitled to treat her with disdain.

“This is a matter most private, Miss Smoak,” Queen said in a softer tone, “please leave” 

Diggle was suddenly there at her arm, and Felicity, while shocked at Queen, allowed him to escort her out of the office away from Queen and the unknown woman.

Diggle didn’t leave her at the door, instead he moved the few steps away that decorum required and nodded to her.

“Mr Diggle,” Felicity said, nodding her head in polite greeting.

“Miss Smoak,” he answered her.

“If I might enquire,” she said, busying herself with sliding her gloves on and avoiding his gaze, “as to the identity of… that woman.”

“Not safe,” Diggle said. 

Felicity looked at him.

“He wishes you to be safe,” Diggle said. “She is a bad person to know.”

“He could just say that,” Felicity said, and even to her own ears her voice seemed petulant.

“He did,” Diggle said, “he just says it badly.”

That made her smile, and the ghost of a grin flashed across his features in return.

“Mr Diggle,” she said, “do you possibly have time to serve as my escort for the walk home?”

Diggle raised an eyebrow at her.

“I know it is not…what might be expected,” she said, “but I find myself disliking the idea of returning to my shop quite so soon as a hackney cab would accommodate me, and these are not the safest streets for a young woman working alone. At the very least I would appreciate the escort for the walk, even if you decline to join me for tea and biscuits afterwards.”

Diggle seemed to consider the offer, then he inclined his head.

“I will follow you,” he said.

“You won’t offer me your arm?” She said before she thought otherwise.

“I will follow,” Diggle said, and of course he would. While this was hardly the rich streets of Mayfair, and the people of the docks much less constrained in their behaviour, the sight of Diggle and herself walking arm in arm would certainly draw attention. She disliked the need for subterfuge, she did recognise the reality of the world.

She nodded her agreement and turned to begin the walk, Diggle a little behind and to the right of her, the position of a trusted servant or guard.

*****

The shop was dark when they arrived. Which made perfect sense as there was no one else who might be inside, but it did remind Felicity of all the hours she was spending in Verdant’s warehouse offices. She was neglecting her shop, her father’s legacy, her grandfather’s legacy. 

The fact that Queen had spoken so rudely to her - even if it was only in an attempt to keep her safe from the mysterious woman - seemed ever harsher as she looked at her store front and sign.

“Who was she?” Felicity didn’t look at Diggle but she could imagine the expression on his face. “I know you wish to keep me safe, but I have a curious nature. Keeping things from me does not prevent me from looking for them, and if she is a dangerous as you say, surely it is better to gain knowledge of her as safely as possible.”

Diggle looked away, obviously considering.

“Please Mr Diggle,” she pressed him, “at least give me a name so I will know who to avoid in the society pages.”

Diggle signed.

“Helena Bertinelli,” he said, “the daughter of the Sicilian count Don Bertinelli.”

“And who is she to Mr Queen?”

Diggle snorted softly.

“A mistake he should not have made.”

“A… romantic mistake?”

Diggle didn’t answer.

Felicity drew herself up.

“Mr Diggle,” she said, “I am not intimidated by one of Mr Queen’s former paramours. I don’t care whose daughter she is.”

“It is not her father who is the concern,” Diggle said. “She is dangerous.”

“I don’t understand…”

“She is consumed by revenge,” Diggle said, “she has taken men’s lives to get it. She is ruthless.”

“But,” Felicity said, “she is just a woman. How has she not been stopped?”

“Queen did not stop her,” Diggle said, “maybe he could not. But he did not, and now she has killed again.”

“Then he must stop her now!”

“She knows of the Hood,” Diggle said, “he cannot stop her and present her to the Crown. She would talk and end us all.”

“Ah,” Felicity said.

She looked at her little shop. Her safe shop, where she had hidden behind her father’s name for so many years before Oliver Queen had come along and expanded her world to matters of more than just cogs and mechanics.

“I think I will spend the afternoon working,” she said, “Mr Queen does not want my help today and there is always more work to be done here.”

“Indeed,” Diggle said.

“If he does want to apologise,” Felicity added, “please tell him I am most open to hearing him.”

“Quite,” Diggle replied, another ghost of a smile playing over his features. “Until tomorrow, Miss Smoak.”

“Good day, Mr Diggle,” she said and unlocked the shop door.

******

Felicity lost herself in re-aligning the delicate inner workings of a carriage clock for the next few hours. Unsurprisingly, no customer’s arrived to disturb her, so when she heard the bell ring as the door opened she was surprised at how stiff she felt.

“One moment!” She called, removing the craft man’s apron and checking that she didn’t have grease smeared somewhere on her face.

She hurried from the back workshop to the front room.

“Welcome to Smoak & Sons,” she said as she walked through the door. “My father, the master, is unavailable right now.”

Felicity met the eyes of the new arrival and froze.

“I don’t believe we were properly introduced this morning,” Helena Bertinelli said.

She raised her contraption in her hand and Felicity recognised it as a miniature crossbow, small but no less deadly for the size. Felicity get suddenly cold; Diggle and Queen considered this woman dangerous and now here she was in Felicity’s shop.

“No,” Felicity said, more for the sake of discovering she could still speak rather than for any considered reason.

“My name is Helena Bertinelli,” Helena said, “And you’re going to interpret this ledger for me and find out where they are holding my father.”

“I see,” Felicity said.

“Or I will shoot you,” Helena said, as if they were talking of meaningless things.

“I see that too,” Felicity replied. She wiped her suddenly sweaty hands on her dress. “May I see the ledger?”

“Of course,” Helena said, smiling beauteously. Clearly she was having a marvellous time. “I’ll just lock the door.” She turned the key in the lock without looking away from Felicity.

“It’s right there,” she added, gesturing with the cross bow.

Felicity looked down to see a leather bound book on the counter in front of her.

“All right then,” she said, trying hard not to let her nervousness and terror show, “what do we have here?”

*****

Helena left her tied up behind the counter but was kind enough to unlock the front door so that she might be discovered by her father. Which would have been so much more of a comfort to Felicity had she not known her father’s presence in the shop was entirely fictional. Still, another customer might stop by and there was always the possibility a local urchin could be lured in and set to retrieve the handcuff key from the hook where Helena had left it.

That she had also left her alive was a surprise to Felicity, considering everything Diggle had said of her ruthlessness.

Maybe she just wasn’t enough of a threat to kill.

After several hours of that maudlin thought circulating in her brain Felicity was thoroughly demotivated and bored.

And then the bell rang.

“Help!” She yelped immediately.

“Miss Smoak?” came a voice.

“Mr Queen? Please help me!”

Queen rounded the counter and dropped to his knees beside her. His hand went to her face, cupping her cheek and his eyes were worried.

“Felicity!” He said, “Are you hurt?”

“No Oliver,” she said, “I’m just… restrained.”

He nodded, his relief evident.

“I’m glad,” he said. “Miss Smoak.”

He leaned back, his hand falling from her face. The moment was over, and Felicity felt a tinge of sadness at that.

“The key is on the hook,” she said, and Queen immediately leapt to his feet.

“Diggle,” he yelled and Diggle instantly appeared in the doorway, his bulk blocking the glow of the gas street lamps.

“Bertinelli,” Diggle said, taking in the scene.

“Yes,” Felicity agreed, “she was here. She made me interpret the ledger for her; she has her father’s location.” The key turned in the lock and her hands were suddenly free, “I’m so sorry, Mr Queen, I know you were trying to keep that knowledge from her, it is my fault she now has it.”

“No,” Queen said, “It is not your fault, it is mine.”

“What are you going to do?” Diggle asked.

“What I should have done a long time ago,” Queen said. He made for the door, then hesitated. “Will you stay, John? Protect her?”

Diggle nodded.

Queen looked back at Felicity, and she was struck by his expression - it seemed desperate and determined all at once.

And then he was gone.

Diggle closed the door and settled himself by the window, watching the outside world, alert for threats.

Felicity rubbed her wrists and tried not to think about Helena Bertinelli’s crossbow aimed at her heart or the touch of Oliver Queen’s hand on her face.

“Diggle?” She said, “I think I will make some tea.”

*****

In the end she went to bed. She didn’t expect to sleep but the presence of former soldier John Diggle guarding her door was apparently enough for her mind to allow her rest.  
She woke to sunshine streaming through the curtains she had not closed and the sound of movement from the shop below her.

Descending the stairs in her sleepwear and gown she found Queen seated behind the shop counter looking over the leather ledger Bertinelli had left and Diggle by the window, ever watchful.

“Is it done?” She asked.

Queen looked up at her. He did not smile but nonetheless she thought he was happy to see her. There was something in his eyes that suggested it.

“She is gone,” he said, “hopefully never to return.”

Felicity let out the breath she did not realise she had been holding.

“Did she find her quarry?”

“Her father escaped,” Queen said, “though several of his guards were not so lucky.”

Felicity sank down into a chair.

“She is mad,” she said.

Diggle grunted in agreement.

“She is gone,” Queen insisted, “Gone from this city and gone from our lives.”

“I hope so,” Felicity said, “she is one acquaintance I do not wish to know better.”

“Indeed,” Queen said, “now while we are here, Miss Smoak, I wonder if I could put your delightful brain to work?”

“If your question can wait until after my morning toilette,” she replied, daringly, “you may have my delightful brain in its entirety.”

“I can wait,” Queen said, and Felicity smiled, gathered herself, and returned back up the stairs to dress properly.


	9. The boy

“The news sheets tell me,” Felicity said as she tinkered with a faulty clock in Queen’s warehouse offices, “that the Crown declined to charge Mr Nichol in the matter of the Church street fire.”

Diggle made an angry snorting noise, causing Felicity to turn to him in surprise. It was rare the man was so vocal.

“Those houses were not fit for dogs,” Diggle said to her.

“Indeed not,” Queen said, “Mr Nichol’s properties include both fire traps and ice houses - while this is the first time he has been directly linked to a fire, seven of his tenants froze to death last winter.”

“How dreadful!” Felicity said.

“Which is why,” Queen said, “the Hood will tonight pay Mr Nichol a visit.”

“Because of the fire?”

“Because,” Queen explained, “he is too well known in society to be targeted by the Crown, and the peelers won’t enter the Old Nichol rookery for fear of reprisals. Nichol’s sins must be paid for and his name is in my book. Do you have objection, Miss Smoak, to my naming him as our next target?”

Felicity thought of sudden death by fire and the slow death by freezing and found herself utterly in sympathy with Nichol’s tenants and not the man himself.

“I raise no objection,” she said, “I am gladdened to see you target one of the more insidious evils that plagues our city, even if it is due to your pocket book of names.”

“Crime is not the only threat,” Queen said and left to don his armour. “There are many battles we must fight.”

Felicity watched him leave - say what you would of the man but his presence was magnetic - she occasionally found it hard to tear her eyes away. Lord help her if he ever realised the effect he had.

Diggle leaned over the desk to peer at the disassembled clock in front of her.

She smiled at him, and gestured with her pliers.

“There is a problem with the gears,” she explained, “they are no longer aligned and the clock cannot tell the right time.”

Diggle grunted an acknowledgement.

“What I need to do,” she said, “is discover where the problem is. Maybe you could help me.”

Diggle shot her an amused look, but he seated himself across the bench from her and leaned forward, intent on the mechanism between them.

They passed several hours that way, Felicity explaining her work and Diggle occasionally contributing a question or comment. It was a pleasant camaraderie and Felicity was surprised at how much she enjoyed passing on the lessons she had received from her father. 

Queen returned early, surprising them both.

“Mr Nichol,” he said, “ was not at home.”

“Why did you not wait?” Felicity asked, “Surely he would have returned forthwith?”

“He was not merely absent,” Queen explained, “he clearly had been taken.”

Felicity blinked

“By whom?”

“That,” Queen said, “is the problem.”

Felicity paused, considering.

“Man had enemies,” Diggle said, “his tenants.”

“Several of whom died this week,” Queen said, “and so yes, this could be them. But I worry about a more sinister opponent.”

Felicity raised her eyebrows.

“You wanted him punished,” she said, “is his abduction not punishment?”

“I don’t like the idea of someone dangerous out there,” Queen said.

Felicity and Diggle both regarded him. Felicity couldn’t see her own expression, of course, but she imagined it was not far from Mr Diggle’s incredulity.

“Someone else,” Queen clarified, “I would not have our streets further endangered by men without my level of restraint.”

“Indeed,” Diggle said, but Felicity could feel his restrained amusement.

“Miss Smoak,” Queen said, “could you perhaps see if any of Nichol’s tenants are known to the Metropolitan police? I believe you have a contact there?”

Felicity blinked, she had never mentioned her lock picking work for the police to Queen. She wondered exactly what else he knew that she had never told him.

“I can try,” she said.

“And I will look to the next of our names,” Queen said. “There is always more work to be done.”

“I will come,” Diggle said.

For half a second, Queen looked as if he wanted to argue, and then he nodded his agreement.

“Will you require an escort home, Miss Smoak?” He asked.

“Just hail me a hackney cab,” Felicity said, gathering her belongings and pulling on her gloves. “I will do the rest from there.”

*****

Detective Inspector Lance was not available at the station and so she reluctantly hailed another cab for Clerkenwell. The light was dimming and she had paid work she had not attended to for some days, Queen’s pursuit of the city’s darker elements having consumed her.

The cabbie was pleasant enough, but thankfully not prone to conversation. Not that it was easy to discourse with a man set atop the roof of the half carriage but she had many who would try, especially when seeing she was a woman alone. He knew the city well and she was over halfway home when she heard the commotion.

“'E’s gonna do 'im!” Came the cry.

The cries. 

All at once the air was filled with voices. East end accents shouted in support and fear and Felicity’s cab was fired to a halt as men and women swarmed the street.

She shifted forward, leaning out so she could speak to the cabbie.

“What’s happening?” She asked, having to raise her voice almost to a shout to be heard over the din.

“They’re saying Nichol 'imself is on a gallows,” her driver said, “e’s bein’ made to testify to his crimes against the rookery.”

“Where?” She demanded, “where is the gallows?”

“Up ahead,” the driver said, nodding forwards.

“I need to see,” she said and pushed her way out of the cab and into the street below.

“‘Ere,” the cabbie called, “you ain’t paid!”

She paid him no mind, pushing through a tumultuous sea of people.

And then suddenly there were the gallows.

Nichol stood on the makeshift platform, clearly saying something though she was too far away to hear the words. The crowd was noisy, yelling and jeering, happy to see the landlord and master reduced to such penury.

And then the box was kicked from beneath Nichol’s legs by a masked man, and the crowd moved beyond jeers into cheers. Felicity was shoved from side to side by the celebrating people around her.

“Watch him swing!”

“Justice for Ol’ Nichol!”

She regained her sight of the gallows in time to see Nichol’s legs stop twitching.

And then she remembered no more.

*****

“You shouldn’t be here,” a voice said.

Felicity opened her eyes.

A dirty street urchin stood in front of her. The whites of his eyes stood out against the grime on his skin.

“Who are you?”

“‘Arper,” he said, adding “Miss,” as an afterthought.

“Hello Harper,” she said. Her head hurt and she reached up to find a painful swelling behind her ear. “What happened?”

“”E did ’im in,” Harper said, “just kicked the box out from under ‘is feet and ‘e fell. Dint break ‘is neck, it took time. Crowd liked that.”

Felicity shuddered.

She reached out and grasped the wall, pulling herself to her feet slowly.

“Your cabbie filched your purse,” Harper said. “Said ‘e was owed a fee.”

“He was,” Felicity admitted.

“You ain’t got no more money,” Harper said, “I looked.”

“I can get you money,” Felicity said, “if you get me where I need to be.”

“‘Ow much?”

“Depends how quickly you get me there.”

“Alright.” He offered her a grubby hand. “Where we going?”

*****

“Felicity!” Queen started, “are you well?”

“I have,” she said, “been better.”

“I expect you have,” he said, and offered her his arm to lean on.

Felicity took Queen’s arm gratefully, letting go of Harper.

“And who is this?” Queen asked, looking past her.

“This is Mr Harper,” Felicity said, “the gentleman who escorted me home.”

Queen raised an eyebrow. 

Out of the corner of her eye Felicity saw Harper puffing out his chest, clearly feeling proud. All he needed was a top hat and he could be the Artful Dodger made flesh.

She suppressed a smile at the thought, knowing he likely wouldn’t appreciate the comparison.

“Mr Queen,” she said, “I wonder if you might be able to oblige Mr Harper with a small purse? I find myself unavoidably lacking in funds.”

“Of course, Miss Smoak,” Queen said, pulling coins from a pocket.

He dropped several into Harper’s hand - by Felicity’s guess they were over half a crown in worth - more money than Harper would likely have ever seen in one place. The boy’s eyes were wide as he bobbed his head in thanks.

Not even noticing the small fortune he had bestowed, Queen escorted her through into private office favoured by their gang of three when dealing with Hood business.

“It is all over the streets,” Felicity said, “so I am sure you have heard of Mr Nichol’s fate - hung before a delighted crowd.” She looked away. “He was no favourite of mine but that was a cold fate.”

A hand came down on her arm in comfort. Felicity looked up to see a sympathetic Diggle standing nearby.

“I have… I have not seen a man die before,” she admitted.

“It is a hard thing to watch,” Diggle agreed with her.

“Thank you,” she said. He nodded and removed his hand from her arm.

“Nevertheless,” Queen said, “Nichol is dead.”

“Harper said,” Felicity admitted, seating herself at her customary table, “that he man who killed Nichol calls himself The Saviour.”

Diggle snorted in disgust.

“The Saviour?” Queen said.

“The Saviour,” Felicity confirmed, “rather pretentious but there you go.”

“He will strike again,” Queen said.

“Yes,” Felicity said, “Harper told me of another gallows and another man - he has already struck twice and will strike again.”

“How do we stop such a man?” Queen said, “How do we track him?”

“He takes those he considers enemies of the people,” Felicity said. “And he judges them.”

“And so we must determine who is his next enemy.”

“In this city?” Felicity said, “where we have enemies at every turn?”

“Nevertheless,” Queen said, “we must find one.”

“Maybe Harper could help,” Felicity said, looking towards the door.

“Why would he?” Queen asked.

“I don’t think you realise how cheaply loyalty is bought in this city,” Felicity said, “we will see the boy again. I would be astounded if he wasn’t waiting outside to escort me home in the hopes of more absentmindedly handed coins from your pocket.”

“It was nothing,” Queen said.

“Nothing for you,” Felicity replied.

Diggle snorted.

“I will talk to Harper,” Felicity said, “at the very least he can send a runner for us when the next gallows appears.”

“It is not a bad plan,” Queen admitted.

“It is our only plan,” Felicity said, “I hope it will work.”

*****

Felicity was gratified to find Harper waiting outside the warehouse. Her intuition regarding the boy’s loyalty was also correct - Harper was happy to be employed, however unofficially.

Serving as his employer however was not without its difficulties.

“I do not recall,” Felicity said when she walked down the stairs of her shop to find Harper seated at the table, “inviting you into my home.”

“Breakfast, Miss?” Harper said hopefully.

Felicity pursed her lips.

“There is porridge and there is jam,” she said, “No more.”

“Porridge and jam will be fine, Miss,” Harper said.

“Go wash up then,” Felicity said, echoing what had been said to her so many times by her aunts, “go on.”

Harper scurried away from the table and Felicity consoled herself that if she was gaining an apprentice at least she could make sure he was fed.

Felicity set the oats to heat over the stove in the main room and selected two bowls from her crockery cupboard. Neither matched the other, but Harper wasn’t the kind of company that would judge her housekeeping. The jam was strawberry, offered as part payment by a merchant’s wife with a stuck lock box. She’d miss it when it was gone - she rarely, if ever, treated herself to jam at the market.

Harper slid into a seat at the table - hands and face freshly scrubbed and startling pale against the muck on his neck and wrists. 

She placed a bowl of porridge in front of him.

“Jam’s in the jar - one teaspoon should be enough,” she said.

Harper looked at the jar and then to her.

“I’m not your mother,” Felicity said, “you can serve yourself - but only one teaspoon’s worth mind, this is all I have.”

Harper considered then nodded. He reached out with notably calm hands and methodically oped the jar and spooned out some jam.

“Did you make this?”

“No,” she said, “it was a gift.”

“From ‘im?”

“No,” she said, “from a customer. He’s not a customer.”

“What is ‘e then?”

“A friend,” she said, and wondered at her own phrasing. What was Queen to her?

“A suitor?” Harper said.

“Goodness no,” Felicity answered. “Mr Queen is a gentleman; he will marry a lady. Not a shop keeper.”

“How ‘bout a friend?”

Felicity eyed Harper.

“Eat your breakfast,” she said, “we have a murderer to catch.”

“And why is it you’re the ones doing the catching?” Harper asked. “Ain’t your nob got a Peeler in ‘is pocket like the rest of ‘em?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” Felicity said.

“Well,” Harper said giving her a gap-toothed grin, “if you don’t ask questions, you don’t get answers.”

“Well put,” she said scraping the last of her porridge and jam from the bowl.

“You dint answer the question, Miss,” Harper said.

“Observant too,” Felicity remarked. “Come along now, we have work to do.”

*****

“Where’s Harper?” Queen asked as she entered.

“Listening to the street,” Felicity replied, “or at least I think that’s what he said. We need to identify how this Saviour selects his victims.”

“Nichol was hated by many,” Queen said, “do we know who the second victim was?”

“Harper tells me he was a corrupt judge, known to be open to bribery. Or at least that was how I interpreted his description of “one of those nobs in wigs who decide whether you ‘ang or not.””

Queen raised an eyebrow.

“I recognise,” Felicity sniffed, “that my accent may not do it justice. Harper suggested the second victim was well known as well, but he did not know the name.”

“I’m surprised the death of a court official didn’t make the news sheets,” Queen said.

“As was I,” Felicity said, “but it would have happened away from the fashionable streets. Society might not know yet.”

“Two dead men,” Queen said, “corrupt men yes, but publicly hung? And no one thought to alert the authorities?”

“There’s little trust in the rookeries,” Diggle said, “they stick to their own.”

“I am not convinced this man is of the rookeries,” Felicity said, “it would take a canny lad indeed to waylay a judge and not get caught.”

“We have a canny lad of our own,” Queen replied, “let us see what he shall find.” He nodded to Diggle. “Tell him to find out who hates both landlords and judges.”

Diggle headed for the door.

Felicity seated herself at a desk and sighed. 

“What is it?” Queen said from much closer than she had been expecting to be.

“It’s nothing,” she said.

“I know how women sigh,” Queen said, “I know when there are unsaid words - I would ask you to share them with me if you thought it might help in the matter.”

“Would you?” She said, tilting her head to look up at him. “Harper asked me what you were to me and I said a friend but are we truly that? I have saved your life and you mine and I joined you in this mad crusade, but we are friends?”

Queen blinked.

“I had not thought of it that way,” he said.

“Indeed,” she replied, “how can we, of such different backgrounds and social value, be friends?”

“As a mad crusade,” Queen said, “is that truly how you see me?”

“Oh,” Felicity replied, “I do not mean that you yourself are mad, but just that our goals are so vast. I do not see how any one man could save this city, not alone.”

“But I am not alone,” Queen said. “I have you.”

He put his hand on her shoulder and Felicity stared at it and then up at his face.

“Mr Queen,” she began, “I-“

“There’s another gallows,” Diggle interrupted them.

“Where?” Queen demanded. He snatched his hand from her shoulder and strode across the room to the wardrobe where his armour and disguise waited.

“Savior’s built a gibbet!” Harper yelled from behind Diggle, “I ‘ere word is to be there in an hour!”

“Where?” Queen demanded, “I must know where.”

“Some say Tyburn,” Diggle said, “some Shoreditch. Some even say Smithfield.”

“I can’t be at all three,” Queen said, a touch of desperation entering his voice. “Diggle and I can separate and arrive in time at two of the three - but the third?”

“You take Smithfield,” Felicity said, “And Mr Diggle, Tyburn. Harper and I will go to Shoreditch.”

“No,” Queen snapped, “I will not-“

“It is the least likely,” Felicity snapped at him, “Smithfield and Tyburn have standing gallows and large crowds, Shoreditch does not.”

“Then it is the most likely,” Queen said, “And I should be there.”

“A fast man can run from Smithfields to Shoreditch in a quarter of an hour,” Felicity replied, “And you are a fast man, are you not?”

Queen set his jaw.

“I can be,” he said, “when needed.”

“It is needed Mr Queen,” Felicity said.

“I’ll look after ‘er milord,” Harper said, pipping up. “I got me iron.”

And with that the boy exposed a wicked looking pocket knife.

“Lord help us,” Felicity cried, “we are wasting time in argument when we could be saving a man’s life, however worthless his actions may have been. Mr Diggle, to Tyburn, Mr Queen to Smithfields - if you find nothing awaiting you then come with all speed to Shoreditch and provide me with your assistance. In the meantime Harper and his iron will see to my safety.”

Queen’s jaw was locked, his expression angry.

“You know this is the right move,” Felicity said.

“I will find you at Shoreditch,” he said to her. And to Harper, “Keep her safe.” He nodded to Diggle and then they were both gone, running from the building.

Felicity bunched her skirts in one hand and reached out to Harper.

“I’m not as fast as them,” she said, “get us a cab.”

“Aye, Miss!” he said.

She followed him out of building as fast as she and her fashionably heeled boots could go. Hurrying involved lifting her skirts but propriety was far from her mind as she dashed into the street, having enough presence of mind to pull the door to Queen’s warehouse offices closed behind her.

*****

The cabbie was unimpressed with Harper’s appearance but suitably bribed to take a whip to his horse and speed their progress across the city.

It was truly amazing what money (in this case a purse of Queen’s borrowed from his desk) was able to procure. Harper was even inside the cab with her, and despite the urgency of the situation he clearly was enjoying riding inside for the first time in his life.

Felicity watched as he ran his hand over the leatherwork of the chair. His gaze was awed.

He saw her looking and thrust his hands back into his pockets.

“Fancy,” was all he said.

She suppressed a smile and looked out of the window - now was not the time to be amused.

They exited the cab beside Shoreditch church - an imposing building with more of the citadel to it than many churches of Felicity’s acquaintance. Still, she mused, given the neighbourhood, perhaps it was needed.

This was the edge of the Old Nichol - London’s most infamous rookery or slum. Just this year the London council had voted to raise it to the ground, citing horrendous conditions and the terrible suffering of humanity found within. And looking at the streets before her now Felicity could see their point. Families stuffed into single rooms, precious few privys and other amenities. As Felicity watched young children poured water from a single hand pump into buckets. Even from this distance she could see how unclean the water was.

But when the authorities knocked it all down what would they replace it with, and where would these people go. A roof over your head was better than none, even if it was drafty and dangerous one.

“Where would people gather?” She asked Harper. “If it will happen here, where will it be.”

Harper nodded.

“I know a place,” he said, “follow me.”

And then he was off, moving through the crowd.

Felicity hurried after him, keeping him in sight. 

Harper led her through streets and down alleys. He led out of the crowd and into the types of narrow pathway she would never normally venture down. Felicity clutched her coat tighter around her and followed.

Harper knew the way, it would be fine.

She didn’t realise how much time had passed until she saw the rookery’s inhabitants lighting candles and the occasionally gas lamp. The streets were so close together they existed in a perpetual dusk, but now the sun was going down and these paths, already unsafe, were about to become a lot more dangerous.

They turned a corner and suddenly they were there - an open space, not much more than 30 feet across, but it contained a crudely built gallows lit by braziers.

And there was no one there.

Felicity turned, taking in the empty square around them.

“I expected more people,” she said, “are we too late?”

“No body,” Harper said, “too early’s more like it.”

Felicity regarded the gallows.

“If he has no gibbet,” she said, “he cannot hang anyone.”

“If you burn it, Miss,” Harper said, “you’ll take ‘alf the ‘ouses too.”

“Yes,” Felicity said, “fire is no solution here.”

She stepped forwards, examining the frame.

“If we had an axe,” she said, “we could break the beams.”

“Ain’t got no axe,” Harper replied.

Felicity searched the pockets on her skirt, finally finding the screwdriver she always carried as part of her mobile tool kit.

“Are there latches?” She asked, “Is there some mechanism I can destroy? Check Harper, see if we can break this wretched thing.”

Harper climbed up on the wood, searching.

“It’s all nails,” he cried.

Felicity sagged, “I can do nothing with nails,” she said. “Can you run and find a bobbie?”

“No,” came a voice, “he cannot.”

Felicity turned, but never saw a face. Something came down hard on the back of her head and she fell to the ground.

In the last few moments before she lost consciousness she heard the voice say, “I’ve been looking for a street rat like you. Harper, is it?”

And then all was black.

*****

Felicity came to slumped against the foot of the gibbet. The noise reached her first, the low sound of dozens of people murmuring to themselves, the sound of a crowd’s expectation.

She blinked and her vision returned. Blurry at first, and then dimmed. The area was lit by the fire in the braziers but there were now too many people for the light to penetrate far. 

Everything around her seemed to be in shadow.

And then there was the voice.

“Boys like him, they dog our streets,” it cried, “they steal money and pick fights! They make the streets unsafe and our neighbourhoods less.”

The crowd shuffled its feet - they seemed less enthused by this than they had with the diatribe against Nichol. Far easier to incite hatred against a slum lord than a slum kid. She wondered how many of them had children the same age as Harper, or were not that much older than he was.

But would that sympathy, fragile as it was be enough to save him?

“A boy like this,” the Saviour’s voice said, “is a pestilence on our lives. He preys on the weak, he preys on the frail - he and others like him preyed upon my wife, and now she is dead!”

Felicity groaned and pushed herself forward, then found herself restrained by ropes.

She let out an angry breath and took a full appraisal of her surroundings.

Her hands bound behind her to one of the legs of the gallows. The Saviour was above her and the crowd - none of which would meet her eyes, save some men with decidedly ungentlemanly intentions - were before her.

She gathered her breath and pushed up, regaining her feet and pulling the skin of her hands and wrists along the rough wood. It hurt, but she knew she must stand if she was to be heard.

And so she stood.

“Stop this,” she cried, “The boy is but a child and no angel, but who here can claim to be without sin?”

She tried to recall more phrases her gentile aunts had encouraged her to learn in Sunday school.

“This is a hard life here,” she added, “let he who is without sin cast the first stone! And murder, lest you forget it, is a sin. This Saviour is no such thing. He hurt people, he does not save them.”

“‘E killed Nichol,” someone in the crowd yelled back.

“Is this boy Nichol?” She retorted. “Is this boy the man who took your money and gave you poor shelter?” Some of the crowd looked uncertain. “No,” she cried, “no he is not. So take your gawking and your vengeance and spend it elsewhere. Let the boy go!”

Some people left, the crowd appeared thinner. But no one came forward to help her or Harper.

“You have been judged,” the Saviour said, “by your peers and by your Saviour, and you have been found guilty.”

“No!” Felicity cried, “Stop this! Please!”

And then there was a dull thud as an arrow hit the wooden beam next to the Saviour

“Let the boy go” said the Hood. His voice came from above - Felicity craned her neck but could not see him.

“Why?” cried the Saviour. “Why are you here? We are the same! We want the same things!”

“I want the boy to live!”

“Why? He is a thug, a pestilence upon our city. Why should he live?”

“If you kill him then he will never be anything more,” the Hood replied. “How will he become more, be better if you kill him now? You can give him a second chance.”

“We’re the only ones who can save this city,” said the Saviour, “we can’t stop now.”

“We’re not the same,” replied the Hood. Felicity wondered if he really meant that. 

“We’ve both killed people for this city,” the Saviour replied, “what’s the difference between you and me?”

The Hood didn’t answer.

“My wife didn’t get a second chance,” the Saviour said, his voice cracking, “you’ve no idea how lonely it is.”

“I understand being alone,” the Hood said, sounding more like Queen than Felicity had ever heard him be. “But it does not give you the right to kill people in cold blood.”

“He’s just like the men who killed her.”

“Don’t,” the Hood said, “he’s just a boy.”

“He’s the same as all of them!” Cried the Saviour.

“Don’t do it,” the Hood beseeched him, but then Felicity could hear the sound of a released bow string, the sound of arrows hitting flesh and then a much heavier impact as his body hit the boards of the gallows. Several more thuds followed and suddenly Harper was there, pulling at the rope around her wrists.

He still had the remnants of a noose around his neck, the trailing end newly cut.

“‘E shot the bleeding’ rope,” Harper said happily when he saw her looking.

“I’m so very glad you’re not hurt,” she said.

“Takes more than that to ‘urt me,” Harper replied, pulling out his knife to cut her bounds.

Once released Felicity slumped forward, suddenly exhausted.

“With me, Miss,” Harper said, pulling one of her arms over his shoulders and guiding her away.

Felicity glanced backwards, wondering if she would see Queen, but the rush of the crowd - half fight, half angry pushing - blocked her gaze.

She had time to see firelight flicker over the features of the man who must have been the Saviour before Harper turned a corner and let her away.

All at once Diggle was there, lifting her from Harper into his own arms and carrying her like a child. Felicity didn’t bother paying attention once Diggle began to walk. Clearly both she and Harper were now safe.

*****

“E’s the bleedin ’Ood!”

Felicity blinked herself awake in the single easy chair Queen kept in his offices. For a leather chair that had clearly seen better days it was surprisingly comfortable, as was the blanket tucked in around her.

“I am not the Hood,” Queen was saying. “He is but an acquaintance.”

“You’re the ‘Ood,” Harper said, “I may be a gutter rat but I ain’t never been a dumb one.”

Diggle stepped in close, dropping a hand on the boy’s shoulder and glaring down.

“I ain’t gonna tell no-one,” Harper said, “it’s just obvious, like.”

“This is a most grave secret,” Diggle said.

“You can trust me,” Harper insisted, “Miss Smoak will vouch for me.”

“Miss Smoak almost died,” Queen replied, clearly angry.

“But she dint,” Harper retorted, “an I dint neither. I owe ‘er and I owe you and I pay my debts.”

“If you tell anyone,” Queen said, his voice dangerous.

“I won’t,” Harper insisted. “I won’t.”

Queen looked to Diggle who seemed to shrug.

“You are in my employ,” Queen said.

“No I ain’t,” Harper said, “I work for Miss Smoak.”

“And she works for me,” Queen replied. “Which means you are mine twice over. And if you hurt her or lead her to hurt then God have mercy on your soul, boy, for I will not.”

Harper drew himself up to his full height.

“You’re good people milord,” he said to Queen, “I won’t be the one that ‘urts ‘er.”

“Don’t call me milord,” Queen said.

“Why not milord?”

“I ain’t earned it,” Queen said emphasising the word. Harper glowered at him but said nothing.

Diggle noticed Felicity’s gaze.

“Queen,” he said, nodding his head to her.

“Felicity!” Queen said, quickly crossing the room, “Are you well?” He crouched before her, looking over her intently as if he expected her to suddenly produce an as yet unnoticed wound.

Felicity pushed herself up on the seat, pulling her arms out from under the blanket.

“I am well, Mr Queen,” she said, “you arrived in the nick of time.”

Queen smiled.

“I endeavour always to do so,” he said. “I am sorry to not have arrived sooner.”

“All is well,” she said, “or is it, tell me, the Saviour?”

“Dead,” he confirmed, “and his gallows destroyed.”

“Good,” she said, “good.”

Diggle snorted and pulled on Harper’s shoulder.

“Let’s get you fed, boy,” he said, guiding him out of the room.

Queen nodded to them as they went but he did not step back.

“Is everything all right, Mr Queen?” Felicity asked.

“Yet again my work has had you hurt,” Queen said, “I cannot abide it.”

“Ah,” Felicity said, “but we won the day and have gained me a bodyguard, not all is lost.”

“Harper is no bodyguard.” Queen’s mouth twisted.

“Then he will be my apprentice,” Felicity said, “if his hands are as adept as he claims for the picking of pockets he will do well with cogs and dials.”

“Do not take him on on account of me,” Queen said, “or my secret.”

“I do not,” she said, then hesitated.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I live alone,” Felicity said slowly, “as I have since the death of my father. It will be nice to have someone to share a hearth with. He likes my porridge. We will be fine.”

Queen nodded.

“Just so.”

He pushed back, standing up from her and Felicity felt a momentary sadness that such an intimate time had passed.

“Miss Smoak,” he said suddenly, not looking at her, “I would not pry but I feel I must ask?”

“Mr Queen?” 

He turned to her then with a face full of uncertainty.

“My “mad crusade” as you termed it, is it really so?”

“No, Mr Queen,” she said, “it is the only sane thing a man can do in this city.”

He smiled.

“But I could not do it alone,” he said, “I have been alone, and I know alone, and you, you are not alone. You have Diggle and myself and now… the boy.”

“One can be alone in a crowd, Mr Queen,” she said, “I have always known this.”

“Do not feel alone with me,” he said, “I ask this of you Felicity.”

She smiled.

“As you will it,” she said, “Oliver.”

A grin broke across his face.

“I value you, Felicity,” he said, “as a very dear friend. And should you ever need someone with whom to talk, I hope you would consider me as such.”

“Thank you,” she replied, genuinely touched at his declaration even if somewhere inside she recognised this made their connection to each other even more complex and confusing. “I will keep that in mind.”

Queen nodded and stepped back.

“Take whatever you need from the cashbox,” he said, “if you intend to keep that boy he will definitely need some new clothes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interestingly enough at the time Arrow by Gaslight is set one of London's worst slums was the Old Nichol rookery which used to be, coincidentally, right beside where I live. I'm not sure if calling their slumlord John Nichol was the Arrow writer's team's joke or whether he's an existing DC character but it was interesting to have John Nichol be the slumlord of the Old Nichol here...
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Old_Nichol


End file.
